


Madonna and Child

by NataliyaMFU



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Affection, Christmas, Gen, Illya Kuryakin - Freeform, Napoleon Solo - Freeform, Nostalgia, the man from u.n.c.l.e. tv, the man from uncle tv - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NataliyaMFU/pseuds/NataliyaMFU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon gives Illya a memory for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madonna and Child

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and posted it on File Forty under my then-pseudonym of Valentina.

Last time he'd managed to reach her, managed to merge his dream and his will. This time, however, his five-year-old legs weren't swift enough. The window of time before his emotions woke him had slammed shut. Still, her face was refreshed in his memory, and that was consolation.

On one hand, the dreams were a gift from beyond. Even though he was unromantic about the metaphysical, preferring the hard facts of science, these illusions broke down his cynicism. He wanted to believe that he could cross that line between death and life, lost and found. Be reunited, if only fleetingly.

On the other hand, the dreams were a curse, leaving him wistful at best, drawing him down into a deep melancholy at worst. The latter could have irreparable consequences. He was always on the psychiatrist's radar. The man had read his file, knew his history, if only simple facts and dates. The doctor would love an excuse to analyze the Russian.

So on the rare occasion the dream visited him, he would suppress his unresolved grief, would shift into his professional persona. If Illya Kuryakin's job as Number Two of Section Two in the UNCLE organization didn't keep his mind occupied, he could always join his fellow scientists in the laboratory, offer his assistance with whatever project they were huddled over. He could conceal his sense of loss until it passed.

* * * * *

Kuryakin walked into UNCLE headquarters an hour earlier than usual. There would still be time for him to get lost in work before his partner arrived and buttonholed him into having coffee with him in his office.

No wonder he had dreamed of his mother. It was a family time of year, and the message was everywhere. Overheard conversations about Aunt So-and-So's flight arrangements from Dallas. Exchanges in the cafeteria about children coming home from college. Colorfully wrapped packages tucked under desks, the result of lunch time shopping forays.

The Russian had come to UNCLE six years ago, and people were no longer suspicious of his Soviet roots. He received numerous invitations to Christmas and Hanukkah parties, and was happy to attend them. There was always good food, lots of homemade sweets. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, however, were reserved for family. Those who practiced Eastern religions, or who were without family, usually offered to staff the necessary posts at HQ, allowing the American majority and other westerners to celebrate.

He recalled some reference to Christmas when he was a child. It was a whispered holiday. A little homemade toy, some fruit, an old icon that belonged to his grandparents pulled from the bottom of a trunk, then replaced at the end of the day. This was an antique, his grandfather had said, and a family treasure, and no one should know about it. He loved his grandfather, and delighted in having secrets with him.

Kuryakin returned from the cafeteria, danish and coffee in hand, and bumped into his partner at a corridor intersection.

Napoleon Solo brushed a drop of coffee from his gray suit. "You should have told me to wear brown today."

"Sorry." Illya muttered.

Napoleon looked at him askance. The collision had been Solo's fault, caused when he turned to look at a mini-skirted secretary. But his partner hadn't indignantly voiced that observation.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

Illya walked around him and into his office, mumbling that he had a lot of work to do.

Solo followed him. "You're more preoccupied than usual this morning."

"I've just been thinking."

Napoleon perched on the corner of his desk. "Can you be more specific?"

Illya might as well confess what was on his mind. Solo would linger until he did. "More specifically, dreaming," he said, not looking up from his coffee.

His partner nodded. "The ghosts of Christmas past?"

"Yes, but they're practically forgotten now," he claimed, wishing it was true. "Buried in piles of paperwork, thanks to the very much alive Head of Section Two."

"The welfare of my agents is always foremost in my mind," said Napoleon with a smile. "Say, what are we doing for Christmas?"

"I assumed you would go to your aunt's home."

"I was just there for Thanksgiving and she'll have a houseful anyway."

"I've already volunteered to take the midnight to eight a.m. shift in Section Five, and I told the personnel on the next shift they needn't be punctual."

Napoleon laughed. "They won't report until noon."

"Then you'd better buy me a good book for Christmas."

Napoleon rose, looking smug. "I've already got your present, and I'll expect you to be at my place for Christmas Eve." He leaned over Illya's desk, lowering his voice confidentially. "Did you get mine yet?"

Kuryakin swallowed the last of his danish. "No. What do you get for the man who never leaves a single impulse ungratified?"

"We are talking about my spending habits, right?" Napoleon asked.

The Russian scowled and Solo gave him a casual parting salute, walking out the door.

Finding a gift for Napoleon was indeed a tough assignment. The question occupied him the rest of the day, ideas discarded again and again. Only later did he realize that he'd stopped dwelling on his dream. Intentionally or not, Napoleon had planted a project in his mind that crowded out all thoughts of it.

* * * * *

8:00 p.m. Christmas Eve

Illya double-locked his apartment door and indulged in one last yawn, a remnant of his four-hour nap. The bracing cold of New York in December would finish the job of waking him fully.

He took a cab to Napoleon's apartment. A luxury, but it was Christmas. And he was scheduled to work all night, or at least stay awake all night. There wouldn't be much required of him. He was becoming just as soft as any American, he thought to himself, but without much condemnation.

During the elevator ride to the penthouse, Illya considered his gift to Napoleon. He had wrapped it in a beautiful gold foil, paper wastefully left behind in the break room where a few female employees had gathered in a last-minute wrapping frenzy. Two of them spotted him walking down the hall with the present under his arm, and insisted he add a red bow. "Who's the gift for, Illya?" they teased.

He raised an eyebrow mysteriously and said, "A spy never tells," and they laughed. He was better at making small talk with people than he used to be, a result of Solo's influence. A few years ago he would have either ignored the question, or just soberly replied, "Napoleon."

His partner opened the apartment door while the Russian's knuckles were still poised in the air. "Merry Christmas!" he beamed.

"Do I detect that you've already availed yourself of some Christmas cheer?"

Solo ushered him in. "That's what Christmas cheer is for."

The sight of the enormous tree left Illya almost dumbstruck. The Russian walked around it, admiring it from every angle. "You have outdone yourself, Napoleon. In fact, you have outdone Rockefeller Center." The room was darkened and the tree shone with hundreds of lights and bulbs, with only an inch to spare between the star and the ten-foot ceiling.

Solo looked a little guilty and confessed. "You can thank my housekeepers. They came upon all the ornaments in my basement storage area and made me a deal that if I got the tree, they'd decorate it." He surveyed its height and girth, and grimaced. "I just hope they're willing to undecorate it."

Illya chuckled. "I should have known this was too domestic a project for you."

Solo moved toward the kitchen. "May I offer you an eggnog?"

"Eggnog?" Illya scoffed. "Bah, humbug!"

"Vodka then, Mr. Scrooge?"

"Just one, Mr. Marley. I do not want to see any apparitions wandering the halls of UNCLE." Illya followed him to the kitchen and sniffed at the aroma in the air. "Are you actually cooking?"

"I had something delivered this afternoon from Mama Leone's, and I'm just warming it up in the oven, per instructions."

"Not my favorite lasagna?" Illya asked hopefully.

Napoleon corrected him. "No, it's MY favorite lasagna."

Illya smiled. "All right, as long as we both get to eat it."

They dined at the coffee table, sitting on the floor and leaning against the leather sofa, with a view of the tree. Gold and silver ornaments reflected the tree lights, multiplying them, the sole illumination giving the room a seasonal warmth and magic.

Illya patted his stomach with both hands as he finished the last bite. "All this food and wine is going to make me groggy tonight."

"I'll go in with you," Napoleon offered.

"No, you've been slaving over a hot stove all day," Illya teased.

Napoleon glared. "What would you rather eat, Mama Leone's cuisine, or my scrambled eggs?"

"Point taken," the Russian noted.

Solo gathered the plates and napkins and deposited them in the kitchen, then returned to the living room. "Time for presents!" he announced, rubbing his hands together and motioning for Illya to get closer to the tree. They sat cross-legged on the carpeting. "Where's mine?" Napoleon asked greedily.

"Patience is a virtue," Kuryakin admonished him, reaching for the present he'd tucked under the tree. "And you could use a virtue or two."

Napoleon accepted the gift and shook it. "Doesn't make a sound, rather lightweight. Gloves?" he speculated. Illya shook his head. Napoleon squinted and held the box to his head as if trying to divine the contents. "Is this one of your newly invented gadgets that I couldn't possibly guess?" Illya shook his head again.

The Russian looked at his watch. "Is it time for me to report to headquarters yet?"

"All right, all right." Solo tore into the wrapping and opened the box. A smile spread across his face. "A new opera scarf! An excellent thought, partner," Napoleon had been wearing his tuxedo with a white opera scarf at a consulate affair two weeks earlier when an altercation occurred, bloodying Solo's nose and ruining the white silk.

"Well, I knew you 'needed' one," Illya mocked.

"Absolutely right. I would have had to excuse myself from all formal bodyguard assignments until I got another one." He draped it around his neck and dramatically tossed one end over his shoulder. "It's an ideal present, and I thank you very much."

Illya looked at his friend warmly. "You are worth it and more, Napoleon."

Napoleon waited for a punch line, but none seem to be forthcoming. "And..."

"And that's all," Illya said.

Solo frowned a little. "You're scaring me, Illya."

Kuryakin smiled and changed the mood. "Now where is MINE?"

Napoleon plucked a package from under the tree, presenting it to his partner with a flourish.

Illya thought he detected a little nervousness in Napoleon's demeanor for a second, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He looked at the juvenile giftwrap, candy canes dancing across the top of the box. "How inappropriate," he said, but couldn't possibly be annoyed with Solo tonight.

He tore off the paper to reveal a shirt box from Saks Fifth Avenue. The Russian groaned inwardly.

"Napoleonnnn," he said, fawning. "You got me a shirt." Then he threatened, remembering the comments they'd made about some hippies in Central Park last summer, Napoleon telling him he should add some color to his wardrobe. "It had better not be pink or peach or flowered."

He attempted to remove the lid of the box, only to find it taped on all sides. His partner received a non-threatening glare as Illya dug into his pocket for his penknife. Napoleon was smiling, obviously pleased with himself at drawing out the suspense.

The tape was savagely sliced, only to have Solo caution him when his fingers went under the box lid, shaking to free it a little too hard. "Careful now." The Russian was about to make a joke when he saw the seriousness in his friend's eyes. He frowned, then coaxed the lid from the box.

Inside were layers of red tissue paper. Illya lifted the top one very slowly, glancing sideways at the expression of anticipation on Napoleon's face.

He let the tissue drop on the floor next to him as his gaze fell on a large black and white photograph, or rather more of a dark gray and ivory photograph. It was a wedding party, early twentieth century, perhaps eastern European.

Illya froze for a few seconds, then looked up at Napoleon. His partner appeared to be holding his breath, his eyes moving from Illya to the photo, then to Illya again.

A slight panic went through the Russian. His fingers trembled, and he didn't trust himself to handle the picture. Instead he raised the box to examine the image more closely. There were twelve people in the group portrait, all dressed in their wedding finery, or as fine as they could manage under what might have been turbulent circumstances. He squinted at the bride and groom in the center of their attendants, and his heart sank. Their faces were only about an inch in height, but he was sure he didn't recognize them. He was conscious of his expression, not wanting to convey disappointment to Napoleon. Apparently his partner thought this gift was meaningful, thought these people would be familiar to him.

No, Solo wouldn't make a mistake like that. He would be absolutely certain of something this important. The Russian looked up at his friend questioningly. Napoleon gently prodded him. "Look at the back."

Illya set the box down on the floor again and gingerly removed the photo, turning it over. It was mounted on a thick gray cardboard. The year, 1916, and the names of the bride and groom and their attendants were inked in a beautiful quilled hand. No Kuryakins jumped out at him. As he began to read through the inscriptions, a name farther below caught his eye and registered. His heart stopped. "Irina Frolov," he mouthed, although no sound came out. It was his mother's maiden name.

He took a deep breath as he slowly turned the photo over as if it was made of spun glass. His eyes went immediately to the person on the right end of the lower row.

The features were familiar but not quite clear, and his right hand fumbled for the glasses in his breast pocket. He tried to remove them from the case with one hand, unwilling to put the picture down. Napoleon took the case from him as he continued to squint at the image, removed the black frames and unfolded them, handing them back to him.

The Russian put them on, his eyes not leaving the photo.

Yes, he was sure now. It WAS her. Much younger, of course. Looking solemn as people did for portraits in those days, and yet pleasant, a gentleness in her eyes. He could almost envision the face coming to life, smiling at him.

"Look under the next layer," Napoleon urged him.

He mechanically did what he was told. Beneath the tissue was another photo, an enlargement, one figure plucked from the group and now standing alone. Illya picked it up, mesmerized, absentmindedly putting the first one down. It was a remarkably clear reproduction. He drank in the well-defined details of her eyes, her hands. The same graceful hands that stretched out to him in his dreams.

Then her image blurred. His eyes filled and he blinked, swallowing.

"I think I'll get us a drink," Napoleon said, getting up from the floor and heading into the kitchen to give Illya a moment alone.

The Russian turned his back to the direction of the kitchen door, secluding himself even more, wanting privacy as he mentally reunited with her. His hand covered his mouth as he immersed himself in the photo. She was about fifteen. Long hair tied with a large white bow, demure white dress and black high-buttoned shoes. She was so much younger than he remembered her, of course, but unmistakable.

He finally had something he could hold in his hands. Something tangible. Something he could spin a tale around. "This is my mother at the happy occasion of the Sorokin's wedding, 1916." He could picture her standing reverently at the ceremony, then socializing with the rest of the party afterward. Young enough to play games with the children, old enough to have a glass of wine and sit with the adults. She probably took a flower from the bride's bouquet home with her, and pressed it in a book.

Her whole life was ahead of her. Her marriage to his father, their relocation to Kiev. The fateful move that cut their lives short. But she was still young in this photo, full of life, and happy. At least he wanted to think of her as happy. That's how he remembered her.

He had been born relatively late in his parents' marriage. His grandparents had called him their precious gift, and he was doted on by them and his parents alike. He had the impression in retrospect that they must have wanted children but had had some difficulties. Then they'd had a son. Yes, he was someone's son. He was this woman's son.

Now his mother's eyes looked at him across time. She could never have imagined the kind of life her son would have. Could never have imagined the incredible challenges he would face, that he would live in America, that the world would be his workplace. He looked back at her, reassuring her that he was all right, and at the same time asking her to watch over him. He didn't care if that request contradicted reason. The fullness in his chest dictated his thoughts at the moment, and he communicated with her in his heart. He knew she was with him, and had been with him all his life.

Illya had searched. Searched for relatives, documentation, some link. The millions of Russians killed in the wars were always in the national consciousness, but the study of genealogy was not encouraged. It was considered a waste of valuable energy and resources, time and effort that could be used on behalf of the good of all the people, the good of the state. So many records had been lost anyway. The needle in a haystack analogy applied.

He had held out hope that someday he might find some kind of birth or marriage certificates. A photograph was beyond his dreams. And names. He tore himself away from the enlargement and picked up the original again, turning it over, reading the names of people that knew her. Maybe he could still find someone from this group, ask them what she was like then. She must have been important to them. Maybe they were relatives.

His smile grew wider and wider at the prospect. Even tonight at UNCLE headquarters he could use the long hours to search various databases. All these names to work with. He couldn't wait to start.

How had Napoleon done it? he wondered. And how could he possibly thank him for this gift of a lifetime?

* * * * *

Napoleon stood over the kitchen sink, his arms braced on either side of it, listening. There wasn't a sound from Illya in the other room. He bit his lip, hoping his friend was all right, knowing that he'd done the right thing by giving him the photo, but praying that right now it wasn't giving him more sorrow than joy.

Twice when Illya had been here at his apartment, Napoleon observed him staring at the photo of the senior Solos, displayed on the mantle.

Napoleon had lost his parents when he was almost twenty. Even though he was at college and technically an adult, he still felt like an orphan when they were taken from him suddenly, so he could relate to Illya's loss. But at least he'd had the opportunity to grow up under their guiding hand. He had a sense of identity, of family, of roots. And aunts, uncles, and cousins to remind him of that.

Illya's family members had been torn from him in war, when he was the tender age of eight. He had endured one traumatic situation after another until he was put into a state-run orphanage. Napoleon often wondered if the staff there was ever affectionate with the children under their care. Was Illya ever comforted after a nightmare? Ever hugged when he scraped his knee? Solo had never asked. Maybe he would someday.

It was nine months ago when the senior agent got the idea to search for photos of Illya's family. He had connections, could pull a few strings. How hard could it be? He had intended to have something in time for Illya's birthday, then realized he'd been kidding himself.

Solo knew it was difficult to ask questions of a personal nature through the Iron Curtain, and the figurative barrier was even less likely to allow any sort of artifacts to escape it. Besides, he didn't want to bandy the name Kuryakin about, fearing it would send up some red flags about his partner to the KGB. Instead, he had decided to track down Illya's mother's family, hoping it would lead to her wedding photo, or at least some kind of memento. He had turned to sources in the United States.

The New York Public Library was his first stop. A librarian there helped him with the research, and suggested other institutions that might yield information. After those resources had been exhausted, Solo haunted Russian and Ukrainian cafes and bars, visited community and cultural centers. New York had the largest immigrant population of any city in the world, and he was confident he would find someone who knew someone who knew someone.

He had left printed cards everywhere he visited, enclosed them in letters he wrote. They simply included the question, in English and in Russian, "Do you know of Irina Frolov (approx.1900-1941, Kiev) or family? Relatives searching for information." Plus a phone number and the box number of a service that would forward mail to his residence. He hired an answering service to take messages and he tracked down a few leads, interviewing people with mostly questionable recollections, but some with another link in the chain, something he could follow up. The search became his hobby, and he polished his Russian in the process.

One evening in November as Solo returned from a frustrating day at the office with a tension headache, his doorman stopped him as he entered the elevator. The man handed him a nine-by-twelve manila envelope that was too big for his mailbox, and too stiff to be folded. Solo took it with an impatient "thanks" and jabbed the button to close the elevator door. He rubbed his forehead with a sigh and glanced at the item in his hand.

The envelope had been forwarded from the private box. He checked the return address as the elevator rose. Lisbon. His eyebrows shot up. He was so intent on examining all the marks and rubber-stamped messages on the envelope that he almost didn't notice the elevator doors open again. His headache was forgotten.

Once inside his apartment he opened the envelope, holding it at arm's length, not really expecting anything to happen, but not knowing what to expect. Another envelope with more markings and an even more intriguing postmark was inside. He opened that one, then slid the photo out.

Who had found it, who had sent it, he never discovered. Maybe it was the KGB. Maybe they weren't so indifferent when it came to family matters. They'd surely gotten wind of the search. Napoleon knew there were KGB here in New York, masquerading as consulate personnel, and they visited the same bars and cafes he'd visited, probably picking up one of his anonymous cards. Maybe they'd even discovered who the mail was being forwarded to, put two and two together, or one and one, and realized the information was being sought for Illya.

Regardless, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He ran it by Waverly, however. Any favor done might be asked to be repaid some day, and his boss should not be unaware of it. The Old Man listened to an abbreviated story of the search and its results, and made a mental note of it, but didn't think it would lead to dire consequences. "Congratulations, Mr. Solo," he'd said, "let me know how Mr. Kuryakin likes it. Now I have some more important business to attend to." And Napoleon had left his office, smiling.

The photography specialists in Intelligence did him a favor and enlarged the most important part of the picture, and he was more than pleased with the results. It had been a long five weeks' wait until Christmas, and Napoleon looked forward to Christmas Eve like a little kid waiting for Santa Claus. He'd been on pins and needles the past twenty-four hours, sometimes smiling to himself, sometimes worrying. He didn't even taste his lasagna, gulping it down while he watched the gift under the tree and swore it was glowing.

Now he stood in the kitchen, leaning back against the far wall of the long narrow room, absent-mindedly holding a Scotch in his hand, waiting. Wondering if enough time had passed for him be welcomed back into his living room.

Illya appeared at the kitchen door, smiling.

"Napoleon..." The Russian tried to look him in the eye, but was unaccustomed to expressing his feelings, even to his longtime friend. "However did you find it?" he managed to ask softly.

Napoleon shrugged. "Oh, I made a couple of phone calls."

Illya laughed shakily and shook his head. "I know better than that."

"Well," Napoleon said, echoing Illya's earlier words, "you are worth it and more."

Nothing Illya could say could convey the gratitude and affection he felt. He moved toward his friend, awkwardly reaching for his arms, then circling his waist, pulling him close.

Napoleon returned the embrace, smiling to himself. "Merry Christmas, Illya."

"Thank you, Napoleon," was all the Russian could manage. But it was enough.

Solo squeezed him hard for a few seconds, then grabbed his biceps and held him at arms' length. "This has been driving me crazy, you know, keeping this a secret from you. It's a good thing I'm a professional."

Illya laughed and swiped at his eyes. Napoleon turned him around by the shoulders and steered him back into the living room. "Come on. I want to know all about her."

Solo grabbed the wine bottle on their way out the kitchen door, and they sat together on the couch for the next hour, Illya sharing fond memories of his early childhood, amazed at how easily they flowed from him now. Sorrow was replaced with joy, reserve with animation, as Napoleon prompted him, asking questions, drawing him out. The Russian was inquisitive about his friend's past, too, and soon his partner was reminiscing about treasured Christmas gifts, eccentric relatives, and nodding off at midnight mass.

There was a pause in the conversation and Illya gazed at his priceless gift once more, temporarily displayed on the coffee table. He looked up at his partner thoughtfully. "I don't have a good photograph of you, Napoleon."

Solo considered it. "Two can pose as cheaply as one."

The Russian agreed, raising his glass in a silent toast.

Napoleon's glass met his.

A week later Illya informed Napoleon that he'd made an appointment with a photographer. A guarantee that, in the future, neither would be caught short without the other to watch over him.

 

The end.


End file.
